


We Call this the Act of Mating

by pastelfalcon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Skinny!Steve, Werewolf AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelfalcon/pseuds/pastelfalcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He runs and it’s everything in the world, wild and fresh and endless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Call this the Act of Mating

**Author's Note:**

> You motherfuckers made me write shmoopy au werewolf porn (with bonus skinny!steve.) And by “you” I mean Steve and Sam, who can’t get down and dirty without also getting sappy as hell.
> 
> Warnings for barebacking, author’s ignorance of wolf behavior, author’s use of “omega in heat” cliche, and generally awful writing. Cheers!

It starts on a Monday.

Steve’s in the middle of laughing with Bucky over their abysmal combined efforts to produce a decent breakfast. There’s burned pancakes and undercooked eggs and a few strips of charred bacon on the plate in front of him and Bucky’s got one bare foot up on the table with a bandaid across his heel and suddenly Steve’s on the floor on his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

“Is it your asthma?” Bucky says somewhere far above him.

It’s not his asthma.

\- - -

Steve was eighteen when he was bitten.

He’d been following Bucky into the woods for months despite all of Bucky’s protests. You won’t survive the bite, Bucky had insisted, but it didn’t matter that he was probably right. Because as much as Bucky didn’t want Steve to become a snarling monster, Steve was twice as determined not to leave his best friend to be one alone.

When he was finally bitten, his first change almost killed him. But he crawled free of his near-deathbed of rotting leaves and fresh moss on four paws, stark white and howling his joy to the moon.

While Steve Rogers was small and clumsy and often sick, his full moons were spent tearing through the underbrush, lean and powerful and following Bucky to the end of the line.

\- - -

It’s Tuesday when Natasha comes over.

She’s the only other white wolf in the local pack so Steve’s liked her from the first time he caught her scent. But liking her isn’t the same as knowing how to talk to her so he doesn’t really know anything about her.

She looks him over thoughtfully and then announces, “He’s in heat.”

Steve turns five shades of pink and draws his afghan tighter around his shoulders. “I’m… I’m what?”

Bucky groans loudly as he gets up and the toothpick he’s been chewing on snaps between his teeth. “That’s just great.”

“But I’m a gay,” Steve blurts indignantly, then winces and shakes his head, stuttering, “I mean a guy. I’m a gay. Guy. I’m a guy.”

Natasha’s eyebrow rises. “Well it looks like you just answered your own question, Rogers.”

“Well that doesn’t mean he’s, that he, you know,” says Bucky, waving his hand vaguely as he paces.

“He’s an omega for a reason, clearly,” Natasha croons teasingly. She’s looking at Steve almost predatorily, eyes bright with something that makes Steve shuffle back against the lumpy softness of their busted-up couch. She laughs and stands up. “Besides, it doesn’t actually work that way, Barnes. He needs to get laid, it doesn’t necessarily mean he needs to be on bottom.”

\- - - 

It’s still Tuesday when Bucky decides he’s going to find Steve someone who can get the job done.

“I know the pack better than you,” Bucky reasons, chewing his thumbnail down to the skin like he did when they were kids. “I don’t want you rolling in the dirt with some random punk.”

“I’m not talking about this with you,” Steve insists crossly, even if he knows it’s a lost cause.

\- - -

On Wednesday, Steve wakes up drenched in sweat and ejaculate and tangled up in his own sheets. He hasn’t been able to get rid of his erection since Monday and even when he takes himself in hand and jerks off until his spine is bowing and his dick is sore, it doesn’t go away. He even shoves a few fingers in his ass for good measure, but other than making his orgasm harder, it does nothing to help relieve the painful, endless ache.

Taking a piss is a nightmare.

\- - -

Wednesday is also the day Bucky brings over a friend.

Steve refuses to leave his room until Bucky makes the guy leave.

\- - -

Thursday Steve puts his feet up on the headboard and lays curled up on his back so he can fit more fingers into himself and almost ends up taking his whole fist. The stretch is so filling he almost feels like he can breathe again, slowly jacking his cock while he clenches around his own fingers and moans low and guttural. When he comes, he actually hollers, but when he drifts back down into himself he’s still hard and hurting.

He falls asleep – hours later – on his belly, rubbing his whole body into his sheetless mattress and whimpering.

\- - -

“This is getting embarrassing, Steve,” Bucky says angrily on Friday afternoon, standing outside of Steve’s bedroom. “Let me find you a fella. It’s no big deal. I always used to help you out, remember?”

Steve remembers awkward double dates with girls that usually ended up in Bucky’s bed anyway, either along with his own girl or a day or two afterwards. Still, there was an effort. Bucky’s heart’s always been in the right place even if his dick stays wet elsewhere.

“I dunno, Buck,” Steve says, but his resolve cracked days ago. His stubborn streak just hasn’t got the memo yet.

“I know a guy,” Bucky says lowly, and it’s muffled in a way that tells Steve he’s got his head tilted close to the door. “He works with new pack, counsels folks who got changed against their will or are havin’ a rough time adjusting to the life. Sam Wilson, you remember him?”

“Nope,” Steve lies.

\- - -

The full moon is on a Saturday.

Steve rides along in Bucky’s car to the forest, trying not to be too twitchy even though he’s practically crawling out of his skin already. His heat hasn’t banked so much as it’s lost beneath his need to change, to jump, to run and bark and howl. He wants to start a fight with a bigger wolf and get his ass kicked.

He does that, a lot.

Bucky strips down first and Steve hesitates with his own clothes. “Aw, pal,” Bucky chuckles, putting a hand on the back of Steve’s neck to shake him, “Everybody already knows. The whole clearing smells like your dick.”

Steve shoves his hand away and scowls, but he knows it’s true. Some of the others already gathered are staring at him. Or sniffing.  Lots of sniffing going on.

“Thanks for the support,” Steve says dryly as he shoves Bucky away. “But I’m good.”

When he changes, his clothes end up shredded and strewn through the underbrush. He’d feel guilty for the waste, but it’s a crisp, clear night, and the moon is full and bright through the trees.

He runs.

\- - -

Steve was eighteen when he met Sam Wilson.

It was his third full moon, and he’d picked a fight with a big brown-furred son of a bitch. His shoulder was a mess of blood and he was looking for Bucky, but the black wolf version of his best friend was nowhere to be found. He’d found a creek and had settled down on the loose pebble bank to feel pissed off and a little foolish.

Sam had come down out of the woods. He was twice as big as Steve, with rich rust-colored fur. Steve had gotten up so the other wolf couldn’t get the drop on him, but Sam just came trotting over and starting nosing at his wound.

When he licked it clean, Steve started whining, but it wasn’t because it hurt.

He ran into Sam infrequently after that. Whenever he’d start a fight with a bully and get tossed around like a rag doll, Sam would find him down by the creek or huddled in a shallow cave, and he’d lick Steve’s growing number of injuries. When the wounds weren’t that bad, he’d duck down and bark, and Steve would chase him or they’d fall into a tussle.

He learned a couple things, playing with Sam. More than with Bucky, who played like he did when they were human, with the pretense of being carelessly rough but actually being very, very gentle. Sam didn’t kick his ass, but he didn’t baby him either. He challenged Steve to do better.

Steve loved a challenge.

A few times, Sam would stick with him all night, and in the morning they’d wake up in some moss patch, naked and tired but Sam was always smiling. They’d walk back to their cars together, chitchatting and teasing, Sam slowing his pace without comment when Steve’s breathing became labored. Once, when Steve had an asthma attack, Sam ran ahead and brought back his inhaler.

“You gotta stop gettin’ your ass kicked, man,” Sam said with shake of his head and a laugh, “First Hodge, now your own damn lungs. It’s just getting embarrassing now. Take it slow for once.”

“I can’t,” Steve had gasped back, looking up at Sam as he brought his inhaler to his trembling lips.

Sam nodded and smiled like he was thinking of something else. “Yeah,” he said, patting Steve’s shoulder and then gripping it, “Guess you can’t.”

Steve loved a challenge.

And Steve loved Sam.

\- - -

He runs and it’s everything in the world, wild and fresh and endless. He chases a rabbit and jumps in the creek and leaps over fallen logs like he’s flying. He feels the moon where she touches him from between every branch, spills across him like pure white sunlight, and he knows her as well as he knew his mother’s touch on his cheek. He lets the human part of him close his eyes as lifts his head and basks.

Sam is standing in his favorite clearing.

Steve starts, bouncing back instinctively.

Sam takes it as an invitation to play, because suddenly he’s jumping on Steve and getting his mouth around the back of Steve’s neck, all fur in his jaws. They flip and churn, Steve trying to get out from under him, panicked and exhilarated at the same time.

Sam pins him.

Sam licks his ear.

Steve rolls over in the long grass and gives Sam his belly. Sam’s head cocks in question because they were only playing, but Steve doesn’t move, panting and offering the line of his throat. Sam pads around him, sniffing curiously, and then abruptly yips like he’s laughing and pounces him.

They tear off together through the woods.

\- - -

It starts on a Sunday.

Steve wakes up in the dirt, smelling damp freshly fallen leaves and old earthy rotting ones, and is immediately aware that someone is sprawled behind him. More than sprawled: they’re spooned up close, an arm tucked around Steve’s skinny waist. There’s a hard dick against the curve of his ass and someone’s nuzzling the back of his neck with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

Even if Steve hadn’t woken up aching and tingling all over, he would have been hard immediately. As it is, he’s back to barely being able to breathe, lust roiling in his blood until he feels like he’s melting out of his skin.

“Shh,” Sam says against his ear. “I know what you need.”

Steve groans loud and helplessly, compulsively tucking in on himself and gripping his cock. He’s already leaking like he’s come, skin fever-hot and so sensitive that touching himself only makes it all hurt worse. Sam chuckles soft and low, reaching down to firmly pull Steve’s hand away. He starts nosing at the back of Steve’s ear when Steve sobs out an agonized exhale.

“Sam,” Steve whines, over and over, choked and hushed.

“I know, I know,” Sam soothes, wrapping his arms around him after a little bit of finagling. “But you gotta settle down, man. I wanna do this, trust me. I need to make sure you do too.”

Steve whines again and struggles, but in the end he stops and sags within the bracket of Sam’s arms. “I do,” he mumbles, too tired to feel embarrassed anymore.

“Because I’m here or because it’s me?” Sam asks, but it’s relaxed and patient.

Steve’s eyebrows furrow before his expression settles into a soft smile. He shifts and Sam initially tightens his grip but then lets Steve turn to face him. “You’re bound and determined to look after me, aren’t you,” he says.

“Only half as bound and determined as you are to get your ass kicked all the time,” Sam says with a grin.

“You know my buddy Bucky pulls the same crap,” Steve says with a dry smirk, “And it drives me nuts.”

“Yeah, well, let’s see your buddy do this,” Sam croons, and they’re kissing, Sam rolling him onto his back and covering him.

It would be romantic, sprawled out naked in the grass in the middle of the woods after sunrise has brought all the birds to the trees to sing, except their mouths are stale and Steve needs to get fucked a week ago.

He’d be cold if not for Sam’s warm skin running hot all over his, chasing away the chill of Steve’s fever and hiding him from the morning breeze.

That would probably also be romantic, except.

“Alright, I gotcha,” Sam laughs into his mouth, and Steve realizes he’s wrapped his legs around Sam’s and is rutting up against him like maybe he’s still mostly canine. He blushes, mortified, but he doesn’t stop licking Sam’s tongue when it pushes his mouth full.

Steve opens easily when Sam pushes a couple of fingers into him, slicked with their spit and crooking into his prostate until Steve throws his head back and strangles off a scream. It breaks free of his open mouth anyway when Sam’s nuzzles into his neck turn into a bite across his throat, their bodies arching together inelegantly as Steve fists the grass and fucking howls.

“Say the word, Steve,” Sam purrs, licking over the mark Steve knows Bucky is never going to shut up about.

Steve’s fingers push past the grass and sink into the dirt beneath. “More,” he gasps out, “Please.”

Sam laughs in his ear. “Actually, I was looking for a ‘yes’, as in ‘yes, I consent’.” He keeps laughing as he kisses his way down Steve’s boney collarbone, getting his mouth on a nipple and making Steve arch up again and whine. Sam reaches up and starts plucking at his other nipple, rolling the hardened flesh between his fingers.

Steve feels the scrape of teeth and has to grit his own, fingernails getting caught on roots in the dirt. “Yes!” he hollers when he breaks, throwing his head back as he comes so hard he’s choking and sobbing again, whole body flushing red in splotches.

Sam lifts his head and glances down at Steve’s splattered stomach. He arches an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Steve gasps, shaking. He is not sorry and you can’t make him be.

Sam says, “That’s one.” Before Steve can ask, he’s dragging his fingers through the mess, gathering it up and bringing it between Steve’s legs to push into his ass like that was the plan all along. Steve shudders and starts curling his fingers, shredding grass roots in the process. Sam slicks Steve on the inside, spreading cum thick on the initial clench of muscles and spreading some deep when Steve starts working his hips into it.

“Guess next time I should bring some lube out here with me,” Sam mutters, amused but a little perturbed, too, like maybe he should have thought of that already.

“Don’t need it,” Steve breathes. “Need you.”

“Don’t have a condom, either,” Sam says.

Steve winces as he eases up on his elbows. “I’m, ah, clean,” he blurts, eyes cringed half-shut as he pants. “The only thing you’ll catch from me is a cold.”

“Awfully intimate for a roll in the woods,” whispers Sam.

Steve grunts and blushes. “Keep moving your fingers like that,” he says, voice strained, “And you’ll be glad we’re not in a bed.”

So of course Sam does.

Steve rips up clods of dirt and grass, tattered roots and all.

Sam laughs and leans up, kissing the corner of Steve’s open mouth. “Not as wimpy as you look, are you, Rogers,” he coos, and gives Steve his tongue again when he crams three fingers up against his prostate and gets his other hand on Steve’s dick.

He comes again to Sam saying, “That’s two.”

“Fuck me,” Steve growls against Sam’s mouth before it’s even petered out.

Sam slides his fingers free like he was waiting for it and slides an arm around Steve’s back, hoisting him close and laying them both down so he can get comfortable between Steve’s thighs. Steve grips him tighter with his legs, crossing his ankles to haul him in close, fingers dragging dirt over Sam’s hair and the back of his neck while they fuck with their lips and teeth and tongues.

The first press of Sam’s cock against his loose, slick ass brings about a jolt of recognition, his entire body on fire with fever and need. It’s been almost a week and he’s barely slept except for tonight, laying in his bed reeking of sex and sweat and trying to work away the ache with hands too familiar to make a difference to the moonlight singing in his blood. He shakes as Sam slides in easy, Steve’s body opening up and taking him deep without a single protesting muscle, and Steve can hear his own heartbeat when he closes his eyes and breathes.

“Stay with me,” Sam breathes out, their foreheads together. “Stay with me, Steve.”

“I’m with you,” Steve promises.

Sam moves slowly, sliding his hands warm and exploring over Steve’s slim shoulders and down across his thin arms. Steve’s skin is electric everywhere Sam touches. He pulls Steve’s arms up with his own and presses them down against the tickle of disturbed grass. Their fingers lace together and Steve takes all of Sam’s weight and breathes easy.

“With you,” Steve exhales, face tilting up expectantly. Sam takes his offered mouth and licks away every whimper Steve makes when they start rolling their hips together, Steve’s slick cock caught between their bellies and his toes curling against the breeze. When he needs to breathe, he draws away just enough to rub his sensitized skin against Sam’s facial hair and Sam’s chuckle falls like warm fur across Steve’s ear.

“That’s three,” Sam says sometime between sucking his mark wider across Steve’s throat and uttering a low growl into Steve’s ear when Steve clenches helplessly. Steve’s hot and wet and smells nothing but Sam above him and earth beneath. His entire body is his heartbeat, too fast and aching, alive with the constant press of Sam, Sam, Sam.

“I’m with you,” Steve sighs like he’s drunk and hurting and maybe drowning a little.

“Steve,” Sam groans like it’s taking everything in him to keep Steve’s head above water. “Fuck, want to keep you.”

Steve’s eyes snap open.

“That’s four,” Sam gasps. “Can’t keep this up, man. I’m not the one in heat.”

Steve blurts “keep me” and means it to be a question but can’t muster the inflection for it. Sam’s cock is dragging against his insides in quick, bruising thrusts, scooting Steve against the ground but pinning him in place with his hands. Push hold push hold push hold. There’s nowhere to go. And Steve wants it just that way. “You want to,” Steve tries again, another question that doesn’t surface as a question at all.

“You just want to ask me out,” Sam pants, voice rough and low and a little self-deprecating in its amusement, “I wanna ask you to come home with me and never let you leave, man.” When Steve shouts like a bark and arches up, Sam’s speech slurs into a snarled growl of, “That’s five.”

Push hold push hold push hold. Heartbeat, pumping fast and strong, like paws thudding across the dirt.

Nowhere to go.

Nowhere he wants to go.

“I’m with you,” Steve whines, head falling back to expose his bruised throat, “I’m yours.”

Six comes when Sam’s teeth break the skin and his hips lock against Steve’s, fucking them both through an orgasm that fills the darkness behind Steve’s closed eyelids with moonlight and running and no weakness ever again. Six comes when he’s screaming so loud he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to speak again. Six comes when he’s promising with every clench of his body that he’ll be falling asleep in Sam’s bed for the rest of his life.

\- - -

On Monday he wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter in the kitchen. Everything aches and for a panicked moment Steve thinks he’s still in heat, but then he feels the scabbing on his throat and realizes he’s just fucked sore all over and exhausted.

He’s clean and his sheets are fresh. And beneath the smell of soap and cotton is Sam’s scent.

Steve gets up and pauses to give the agonized throb of his ass the cringe it deserves. His cock isn’t particularly content with its condition either, and when Steve shuffles into his bathroom to take a piss, it not much better than when he was in heat.

He pads into the kitchen in a bathrobe that’s seen better days and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms.

Sam is just starting to peel uncooked bacon from some butcher’s paper to throw it into a pan. “Well look who’s up,” he says with a wide smile. He leans over and kisses Steve immediately, intimately, comfortably. 

Bucky snorts at the table and goes back to reading Popular Science.

\- - -

It’s another Tuesday when Natasha comes over.

“It was pretty obvious how you two were pining after each other,” she says, putting her feet in Bucky’s lap on the couch. “I told Barnes to tell Sam, but he didn’t want to step on your toes. Especially when you lied about not knowing him.”

“You liked about me?” says Sam, feigning hurt. He’s got Steve in his lap on the floor, muscled arms holding him still when Steve squirms guiltily. The bruise on his throat is green and yellow mostly, except where Sam’s bitten it all over again. “Man, that is low.”

“I didn’t want to complicate things,” Steve protests. Sam nips his ear.

“Get a room,” Bucky groans boredly, slinging a throw pillow at them and slumping lower against the arm of the couch.

“Oh, he’s got one,” Sam chuckles, “And it’s right next to yours.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bucky says, flinging an arm over his face.

“Don’tchu worry,” Sam assures him, nuzzling his way to the side of Steve’s neck where the marks are less prevalent, “This little omega right here’s coming home with me tomorrow.”

“Maybe Natasha can rent my room,” Steve suggests slyly.

“Or maybe I can skip the bullshit and sleep in Barnes’s room,” muses Natasha. Bucky slowly peeks out from beneath his arm and she grins like a predator. “I can and will tear your beta ass up, Barnes. All you have to do is ask.”

\- - -

On Tuesday night, Steve can hear just how much of an alpha Natasha is through his bedroom wall.

Bucky keeps his eyes ducked all through breakfast while Natasha keeps her feet propped in his lap and plays with his hair.

“Maybe it does actually work that way,” Natasha says contemplatively, eating sausage with her fingers.

Steve chokes on his orange juice and Sam pats him on the back.

\- - -

Steve was twenty-two when he moved in with Sam.

All of his things fit in between all of Sam’s things as easily as their fingers laced, his clothes tucked away inside Sam’s drawers and his routines cradled inside Sam’s days. Bucky came over almost every day for a meal or three, sometimes with Natasha and sometimes not, and all four of them drove to the woods together on every full moon.

“I love you, Steve Rogers,” Sam said on the very first day, when Steve – red-faced and panting – was carrying the last box of his stuff inside. When Steve clutched his chest and slid, gasping, to his knees, Sam crouched beside him with his inhaler and asked, “Is it your asthma?”

It was his asthma.

But only partially.


End file.
